************************************************************************* Disclaimers: Written in 1997. Methos, the Highlander representation of the Four Horsemen, and Immortality, among other people and other themes, are all copyrighted by Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. Nothing in this story is intended to infringe any of their rights and was not written for profit. The characters in this story are fictional and not meant to resemble any real persons, etc., etc., etc. Except for Jack the Ripper. We know he was real. Author: AnneZo *************************************************************************   My Brother's Keeper   The darkness surrounded him and the thick fog muffled his footsteps against the cobblestones. These deserted streets reflected the lateness of the hour. This far into the night, few honest citizens were willing to walk the streets and almost no one would have the courage to walk alone. Two errands brought him on this path tonight. Behind him a door closed and locked against the darkness. Behind that door a woman lived and he owed her more than the safe passage his presence guaranteed along her journey through the streets. A score of months ago she'd found him lying in a pool of blood. Each inhabitant of these streets had their craft and his attacker had been content with taking his purse. Some preferred to cut the throats of their victims first and despoil the bodies at their leisure. He was grateful for whatever Providence had protected him from that fate and had offered him up to a witness willing to keep the secret of his miraculous recovery. Her name, he had learned, was Caroline Watson, and she was one of a small group of dedicated fighters against the filth and corruption that ruled the back streets of London. There were those in power, their incomes bloated from the rents of tenements and slums, who preferred the status quo. And there were those in all levels of society who spoke out against the crime, the poverty, and the despair that lay like a tide of corruption beneath the veneer of civilization. Caroline and others like her struggled to give the poor a chance, to offer food, clothing, and hope. It was a mission that consumed her and condemned her to live in the very squalor that she abhorred. A slender income, provided by a long-dead father's legacy, was her only support. Most of those funds she squandered in a vain attempt to relieve the suffering around her, keeping back only enough to provide a shabby roof over her own head and barely enough food for survival. He had offered to supplement her income with enough funds to allow her to live in modest comfort. That had been some weeks after their unusual introduction and he still remembered the scorn with which she had treated the proposal. "Do you think that I can live in luxury while all around me there are women dying for want of a crust of bread? Can I surround myself with trinkets and dress myself in silk while a mile away children freeze to death for lack of a blanket to cover them?" He had not realized how completely these convictions ruled her but in the months that followed he had come to realize that she was as dedicated to the purpose she held as any priest could be to a vow sworn in the sight of God. He admired her clarity of purpose, even as he attempted to persuade her to leave the task to stronger shoulders. "I have no idea of leaving these people. I am not so frail and you think, sir, and it is not only men who can fight and struggle for a worthy cause! You think because I am a woman that I am unfit to be in these streets. Well, I am. And so are the women and the children forced to live here by the brutality and the weakness of those whose job it is to protect them! When the men of this society take up the task of ruling and remember that their task is to protect the weak, then the women may sit home by the fire. As long at the men look the other way and refuse to see the misery in front of them, then women must fight on without them." Her passion moved him, even as he refused to join her crusade. Too many times had he seen this battle fought and lost causes no longer attracted him. Still, to Caroline's surprise, he continued to appear at her door at regular intervals, offering some small donation of money or assistance when her burden came near to overwhelming her. No offer of assistance to the poor was ever refused, and no offer of assistance that would not benefit her flock was ever accepted. Until now. Now evil stalked the night and raised terror in the breasts of the timid. Caroline, always valuing every other life over her own, had refused to exercise caution in her self-imposed duties. Acknowledging his defeat, he finally insisted upon accompanying her each time she appeared in the streets after dark. And yet he knew that some night she would be called from the safety of her home into the very back alleys where the danger was the sharpest. In the early morning hours, every shadow was suspect, every corner turned in safety was a triumph. Those who understood this stayed behind barred doors. Caroline, intent upon ministering to some wretched soul, would turn the wrong corner some night and she would die. As she almost had the last time. He had come upon her in a midnight ramble. Unable to sleep, restless and feeling the need to move on, he had been walking the streets alone, considering his future. As he turned the corner from one filthy street to another, the pressure in his skull warned him of the approach of another of his kind. Drawing back into the shadows, he had waited for the unseen Immortal to approach. Instead, he had heard a scuffle and a woman's choked-off cry. Before caution could prevent him, he had dashed toward the noise. As he ran, he felt the other's aura fading quickly. The dim moonlight had been enough to reveal Caroline slumped against the building, gasping for breath with a shallow cut across her throat. The police searched the teeming slums in vain and interrogated the beaten men lurking in its byways. No constable walking his beat in the dirtiest alleys of this vice ridden city believed that his quarry would be found among the downtrodden and the drunken poor. "A doctor," whispered some fearful voices. "A butcher," murmured others. "A lunatic," agreed the masses. Uselessly did the newspapers report that this evil stalked the streets of Whitechapel and urge the people to avoid the cursed area. There were livings to be earned each night. The price of a bed, a meal, and a drink had to be wrested from the darkness. Frightened women hugged the fringes of the lane he walked, their thin and fearful voices inviting him to a few seconds of tarnished pleasure in their arms. With each call, the Immortal could feel the eyes straining to see him through the shrouding mist and hear the shabby, beaten minds screaming, *Is it him? Is he the one?* He did not fear the evil that hunted the unseen women. The terror that stalked them was his target. Nearby, a quiet scuffle and a darker shadow fled past him. The woman stared after the man who had abandoned her embrace thus abruptly, clutching the meager coins and letting her heart unclench. She had won another day's survival with the wager of her life tonight. Leaving the thinly populated corner behind, the quiet man let the darkness swallow him. In the frightened street, the fog clinging to his cloak was a reassuring presence, shielding his passing from unfriendly eyes. His sight was limited to the small area directly in his path but he was willing to trade a wider field of vision for a anonymous protection of the concealing fog. His errand was one of secrecy. Where the law was failing, he was determined to succeed. His time in this city was almost at an end. Before he left, he would repay Caroline the debt she refused to acknowledge. It was her choice to spend her life as she saw fit, but it was not a choice that he could make. A thousand, two thousand years ago he might have believed that salvation, freely offered and accepted, would be enough to cleanse these streets. Bitter experience had convinced him that each soul must find its path and that no charity was enough to remove the stain of poverty or vice. He would not kill his Brother. Not even now, after the centuries' passing had dimmed the memory of their bond. And yet, he must be stopped. If Caroline could not be prevented from haunting these streets until the evil passed, then the evil must be moved from her path. The silent figure picking his way toward his destination had a plan. It was risky, but less so than the probability of exposure by an Immortal so lost in insanity that he chanced detection with every murder. Each time the victim's body had been discovered scant minutes after the deed and each time the murderer escaped capture by the slimmest margin. Not content with this danger, he offered the daily papers mocking letters, boasting of his deeds. To hang a man in public was all very well. To leave his broken body on display for a few days or a week was an object lesson to others. Unless that man was Immortal. Thousands would watch him die and every day hundreds of passers by would view the limp body and, more horrifying still, the moment hour after hour when life reanimated the dangling corpse. Another reason he had to act, and swiftly. Lost in these thoughts, he almost missed his destination. Sliding unnoticed into the crowded room, he searched for the one whose message had called him out on this murky night. Spotting his summoner, he beckoned to the wizened man and the two dark heads bent close for a whispered exchange. "I found the man you seek." "Are you certain?" "Yes, yes! It must be him." "How do you know?" "You told me, didn't you? The hair, the eyes, it's all the same. And--" "And?" "I searched his room. When he was out. I found--" "Found, what?" You fool, he could have caught you!" "Knives. A dozen or more, all shapes and sizes, most of them very old. Who is this man to you? Do you think he might be--" "Enough! I did not hire you for idle chatter or for searching rooms! Did you steal anything? If you have frightened him off, I'll be the death of you!" The smaller man quailed in fear at the look of sudden danger in his companion's eyes. "I am not a thief! You said I must be certain so I looked around, just to know for sure!" Looming over his frightened informant, the larger man cursed briefly. "If you're lying to me, you know what I will do to you! Quickly, where is he to be found?" The fear stricken spy gasped out a hasty address, more afraid of his employer that of any reprisals from the unknown target. Clutching his money he shoved his way to the door and vanished. His fee, which had sounded like a fortune when he had been hired, now seemed like little enough for the risk he had run. Between his doubts about the man he had stalked and his new found fear of the man who had offered such largesse for a simple task, he felt fortunate to have escaped with his head. Behind him, his erstwhile employer leaned against the wall of the shabby alehouse and considered his plan. Although he feared to act himself, the rest of his tools were far superior to the fool who had just left him. Running over the plan in his mind, he was satisfied that it would work. Retracing his steps hastily he took less care now to go silently. Now he was just another late traveller hurrying back to the safety of the gas lit streets of a better neighborhood. He was unprepared for the sudden shock of another Immortal's presence. The faint buzz hovered at the edge of his mind for several seconds. Hurrying on his way, the Immortal prayed that his unseen rival was not also the prey he had ventured out to trap. He didn't relax until, reaching the better lit streets, the feeling faded into nothing and did not return. If another Immortal had decided to make this city their home, his plans would be compromised. If not, then it was the one Immortal above all whom he wanted to avoid at this time. The one he intended to destroy. Either way, the plan would have to be hurried. Reaching his nondescript lodgings, Methos threw himself on the sagging bed and tried to relax, to gather strength against the coming day. **** Morning broke and the winter sun slowly burned off the remaining patches of fog. From a row of anonymous buildings a man stepped forth confidently, looking neither right nor left as he strode arrogantly down the shabby street. It was difficult to recognize the previous night's timid stalker in this well dressed figure. Rounding the corner he approached the cab stand and climbed inside the nearest hack. Calling to the driver he gave his destination, but not too loudly. As he settled back to wait out the ride his senses were alert to the possibility of being followed. Glancing back casually he saw that the street was clear. The echo of the horse's hooves was the loudest sound on the quiet street. His destination was a shabby genteel hotel on the border between a would be fashionable neighborhood and the rougher slums of the dockyards. Paying off the cab he glanced around casually before entering the dark building. His arrangements had been made well in advance. Upon rising that morning, he had sent a hastily penned note to the hotel and one to another man. Now the owner bustled forth and greeted him obsequiously. In this neighborhood a man who demanded the use of a private parlour for the day, and paid cash in advance, was a welcome guest. "Is the room ready?" His tone was curt. As he followed the man to the prepared room, he glanced around incuriously. He had already inspected the hotel thoroughly some days before. "Yes it is. The best parlour, as you asked. There's a fire burning and I'd be happy to bring you something hot to drink to ward off the winter cold." "Nothing now. I am expecting guests. When they arrive, show them in." "There are already three other--men--waiting to see you." The hotel keeper's tone was doubtful. Obviously he wasn't certain if the scruffy men inhabiting the public bar were those his well to do patron was expecting. "Show them in." When the inn keeper showed the three men into the private room, his reluctance was explained. It certainly would be difficult to know what business these three ruffians had with the man waiting for them. On the other hand, he knew better than to stick his nose in another man's business. Methos watched carefully. He ignored the two carrying pewter beer pots and they settled themselves near the window to wait. He turned his attention to the third man. "It is time you earned your pay." "Well, here we are." The man's voice was surly but his eyes brightened at the mention of money. Cautious, as always, Methos insisted upon giving detailed instructions on how to proceed with the capture of their victim. "Here is the address, do you know where this location is?" The other man examined the bit of paper carefully. "I know." "For the rest of the day, and as many days as necessary, you will watch this room. You know the description of the man I have been seeking. He lives in this place. My information is that he has been seen leaving every day just after dusk. Tonight or tomorrow, when he leaves, we will be waiting for him." He seemed to understand and Methos was careful to emphasize the danger they were in. "This will not be easy. If he is indeed the man I am seeking, he is a strong and cunning fighter, and never more so than when cornered." He would prefer to be killed rather than to allow himself to be taken. I do *not* want him killed." "You seem strangely careful of a man who is your enemy. Why not just kill him and be done with it?" "That is my business." Methos did not make the mistake of offering explanations. The money he was paying was sufficient to insure they would do as he demanded. "We'll hold him until full dark, then take him to the wharf. You'll receive the rest of your money there." He arranged to meet them shortly before dusk. Before moving ahead with his plan, he had to make certain that this was the Immortal he had hunted. After this evening he would know. If this was indeed his target, these three fools would tie the unconscious man up and hide him in a set of rented rooms until full dark. Then they would take him to the ship he had described. The captain knew to expect them and he would be there himself to pay out the rest of their money. Once he was certain they understood their instructions and that they would follow them, he let the three men go about their business. His next stop would be at the ship, but first he needed to change clothes. He had one more stop to make. A couple of hours later, there was nothing to connect the man from the hotel with the fussy, middle class figure who stepped carefully aboard the run down ship and made his way to the captain's cabin. He was, he explained, making his appearance in this business at the request of the man who had written to the captain. He worked in the office of the lawyer for a titled family. An old family servant had gone to her employer with a tale of sorrow about an unsatisfactory offspring. The man, who was certified insane, was being smuggled out of country before authorities brought him up on charges for "crimes of violence." The peer, he was certain it wasn't necessary to mention names, feared that this man would do murder, and, in deference to the long years of service rendered by his mother and father, had arranged for the son to be safely confined in France. The captain expressed reluctance to ferry an insane prisoner, hinting that the money he was being paid was insufficient. Methos assured him that a doctor would be making journey with the patient and would keep him sedated. He refused, politely but firmly, to re open discussions of the fee *his employer* was paying, knowing that the captain was already receiving almost enough money to buy a new boat. The captain agreed to keep his boat ready to sail any evening that week. Two nights later, when the moon was dark, a tied and gagged body was dropped roughly in the dirty hold of the ship. Several strong sailors held the struggling figure while arms and legs were tightly manacled. Ignoring the screams and curses, the captain gave the order and the run down vessel set sail for the coast of France. Below, in the darkness, a shabby drunken man presented himself to the prisoner as the doctor who would be accompanying him on the voyage. The prisoner glared at the stout, white haired figure. "What do you want? Money? Is it money? Get me out of here and I will give you as much as you want." The doctor was unmoved. "I accepted this job and I intend to do it. Do not think that just because one unfortunate patient died, that I am lost to all honor. I am being paid to bring you quietly to your confinement in France and I intend upon doing so." He laughed and continued, "It is necessary for me to leave England for a time and this will do as well as any arrangement. You need not fear an unpleasant journey. Your patron has provided the means to shorten the trip." Trembling hands caressed a case of opiates lying near his side. "Enough to insure a pleasant journey. For both of us." **** Several days later, in an asylum in France, the doctor resigned care of the heavily drugged patient to the director. "He should give you no trouble. He's quite mad, of course, and they did well to take this step. You will want to get him into his cell before the drugs wear off, he's quite abnormally strong. I have explained to him that he is to be confined for his own good, until he dies, but you may have to tell him again. He doesn't seem to believe it." **** The years passed slowly. The asylum stayed the same as the world around it changed. There were chains, rats, screaming inmates, brutal guards, nothing changed. Always in a low, dark corner of the stone building were the screams from a man whose arrival none of them remembered. "I am Caspian of the Four Horsemen and I am immortal! I cannot die!" **** The End **************************************************************** Bibliography (Meaning the author was inspired into writing this story by the following book): Rumbelow, Donald, _The_Complete_Jack_The_Ripper_, Boston: New York Graphic Society, 1975.